NICHOLAS FLAMEL
Ron didn’t answer; Snape had just awarded Hufflepuff a penalty
because George Weasley had hit a Bludger at him. Hermione, who
had all her fingers crossed in her lap, was squinting fixedly at Harry,
who was circling the game like a hawk, looking for the Snitch.
“You know how I think they choose people for the Gryffindor
team?” said Malfoy loudly a few minutes later, as Snape awarded
Hufflepuff another penalty for no reason at all. “It’s people they
feel sorry for. See, there’s Potter, who’s got no parents, then there’s
the Weasleys, who’ve got no money — you should be on the team,
Longbottom, you’ve got no brains.”
Neville went bright red but turned in his seat to face Malfoy.
“I’m worth twelve of you, Malfoy,” he stammered.
Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle howled with laughter, but Ron, still
not daring to take his eyes from the game, said, “You tell him,
Neville.”
“Longbottom, if brains were gold you’d be poorer than Weasley,
and that’s saying something.”
Ron’s nerves were already stretched to the breaking point with
anxiety about Harry.
“I’m warning you, Malfoy — one more word —”
“Ron!” said Hermione suddenly, “Harry — !”
“What? Where?”
Harry had suddenly gone into a spectacular dive, which drew
gasps and cheers from the crowd. Hermione stood up, her crossed
fingers in her mouth, as Harry streaked toward the ground like a
bullet.
“You’re in luck, Weasley, Potter’s obviously spotted some money
on the ground!” said Malfoy.
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